I find myself on all fours again, desperately searching for it. A trail of glitter leads me toward the bed, and I reach under it, feeling around. I pull out a dirty sock which I fling toward the hamper, and then the letter. Score!
Oh, dear lord. The nightmare version did not do it justice. It’s huge and gaudy. The heart is lopsided, one side bigger than the other. My normally neat penmanship is sloppy. I have a vague recollection of acknowledging that and saying it was my passion that couldn’t be contained in a tidy manner.
Adam,
My heart is yours.
Reagan
With another groan, I fold it three times until it fits in my palm. That line isn’t even good enough for a Hallmark greeting card. No more wine. Ever.
“Reagan?” Adam’s deep voice washes over me.
I’m still on my knees. Quickly, I scramble to my feet and force a smile. I start to speak, but the wall of naked man in front of me renders me speechless.
Fresh out of the shower with only a towel around his waist, he’s straight out of every woman’s fantasy. At six-foot-three, two hundred and fifteen pounds (yes, I’ve memorized his height and weight from the hockey roster because, hello, mad crush over here), every delicious inch of him is chiseled. Jaw, chest, abs, and—I’m only guessing on this one—ass.
Water drips from his dark blond hair. My gaze follows a slow trickle that dips between the valley of his pecs, down his six-pack, and then is absorbed into the white terrycloth that hangs just below his waist. Cockblocked. Me and you both little water droplet. What I wouldn’t give to be a bead of water on his—
“Reagan? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Perfect.” My voice is tight and squeaky. Sweat beads on my forehead and between my boobs. Not the glowy sweat I was imagining happening in this room either.
One side of his mouth pulls up. His smile is my undoing every time. He doesn’t do it often. Not that he isn’t a happy guy, but Adam is serious and controlled. Even when he’s having a good time, his smiles and laughs are few.
Growing up like I did, his determination and the values he lives by speak to me in a way that I can’t describe. It’s as sexy as those rare smiles.
“What were you doing under my bed?” Hazel eyes narrow, taking in the scene.
“Oh, I…” My fist closes around the paper. “I was looking for my scrunchie. I let Ginny borrow it. I thought it might be in here.”
“A scrunchie?”
“Like a hair tie. For my hair,” I add dumbly and then comb my fingers through the tangly locks.
“Like the one on your wrist.” He points.
Right, because why would I be looking for a scrunchie when I have one? Hiding my arm behind my back, I smile. “It’s my good luck scrunchie. It’s black and has little gold stars on it.”
“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks. That’d be great.”
We’re in an awkward stare-off.
“Anything else?” His hands go to his waist. He’s literally waiting for me to leave so he can get naked.
Move your feet! Flee! Go! Don’t say another word!
Unfortunately, my brain works in slow motion when Adam is nearby. Obviously, he’s gorgeous, but it isn’t his looks that make me dumb. It’s just him. My crush is out of control. I’ve built him up so much over the years; no one can compare. Not even him. That’s partly why I haven’t told him. The other reason is far too self-deprecating to admit, even to myself.
“Nope. All good,” I say finally. I lift a hand and salute him. A salute? Seriously?
“You’ve got a little…” He stops speaking and steps forward. His hand grazes my cheek. With a thumb, he strokes my skin. I melt into his touch. My eyes flutter closed. Sweet, sweet nirvana.
“What is this? Glitter?” he asks.
“Hmmm?”
His hand falls away, and I open my eyes to his finger in front of my face with a dot of gold. He’s so close I could lick the water droplets off his neck. I refrain.
“Oh, yeah. I was crafting last night.”
“Crafting, huh? Well, whatever you did, it must have been fun. Ginny was a mess this morning. Hungover as shit.” Adam moves past me and digs in his dresser. He pulls out jeans and a gray T-shirt, then socks and black boxer briefs.
Right. A mess. Like me. I’m suddenly acutely aware that I haven’t washed my face or brushed my teeth yet this morning. My standard sleep attire is shorts and a T-shirt, so I’m not exactly undressed, but I sure feel naked and unworthy standing here.
I’m still gawking too, which is about to get uncomfortable as he reaches for his towel again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting weird.”
“I’m good. All good.” My voice lowers like I’m some sort of suave dude. I wave him off, and the red heart falls from my hand and tumbles like a weed toward his feet.
He picks it up and looks over the red square. “Some of your crafting? What is it?”
He starts to unfold it, but I snatch it from his hands. “It was a rough concept of an idea that didn’t really work out.”
“If you did it, I’m sure it’s great.”
The compliment warms my insides. Everything he says is so perfect. “Thanks, Adam. I should…” I motion with my head. Leave before I make this any more uncomfortable.
One of those rare smiles tips up his lips. “Later, Reagan.”
I hustle out of the apartment and back to the safety of my own. Dakota’s back from class and standing in the kitchen throwing ingredients into the blender for a smoothie. The same one every day. Chocolate protein powder and a scoop of peanut butter. She adds peanut butter to everything, buys it in bulk. I’ve had so many peanut butter sandwiches since we started rooming together freshmen year; I can’t even look at a jar of Jif anymore.
“Where have you been looking like that?” She waves a peanut butter-covered spoon in my direction. “And without shoes.”
“Retrieving a secret admirer letter.” I run a hand over my messy hair again and then use my scrunchie to pull my hair back. Where is that black and gold scrunchie anyway? It isn’t exactly lucky, but it is my favorite, and I haven’t seen it in weeks.
“Oh.” Her brows lift. “Sounds like I missed an interesting night.”
“You have no idea.”
2
Adam
I’m broken.
A hot girl is sitting on my lap and the only thing I can think about is how her bony ass is digging into my thigh. I try to adjust to find a more comfortable position without tossing her off my lap. She turns and smiles at me, bats her lashes.
She’s pretty—stunning blue eyes, a cute pixie haircut that few girls could pull off. My gaze drops to take in the skintight dress that molds to her curves and stops mid-thigh. Nope, nothing. I feel nothing. I really am broken.
Being single isn’t my jam. Sure, it’s fun hanging out and drinking, flirting, but it all feels so shallow. I flirt with a purpose—to get a girlfriend. And the one in my lap isn’t really my type.
“Hey,” she says for about the tenth time. That’s all she says. One word, repeated. I can’t tell if it’s some sort of private joke we’re supposed to be sharing or if it’s the only thought floating in her head.